


As Above, So Below

by helldyke420



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fantasy AU, Rating May Change, Skyrim AU, more tags as continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helldyke420/pseuds/helldyke420
Summary: A classic story of girl meets boy, boy kills abusive father for her, girl and boy go on an adventure, girl and boy kis ... little ... maybe. If only it were that simple, of course.This story is best enjoyed if you only have a casual enjoyment of Skyrim. If you know shit about lore, I don't wanna hear it. I'm Skyrim canon compliant until I'm not and then it's on purpose.Takes place AFTER the dragonborn stuff, nothing to do with any of the main questlines. There will be nor dragonborn in this. Just set in the world.Title is As Above, So Below by In This Moment
Relationships: Kurloz Makara/Damara Megido
Comments: 8
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> happy quarentine yall. enjoy this ... please ... im writing more even if you guys hate it, at least another chapter

“Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, bring your child unto me … For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…” The knife drives into the effigy again, the flesh it finds making a sickening wet noise. She shudders a little, the sight of the mutilated flesh making her stomach turn. She closes her eyes, fighting her nausea for a moment. She couldn’t give up, no. Too much effort, too much preparation. She opens her eyes again, pulling the dagger out with a disgusting, wet noise. “Sweet Mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.” She murmurs again, the blade sinking in once more.

She had been at it for several hours already, her fervent prayer growing exhausted. She repeats the prayer, and sinks the blade in once more, sitting back to stare at the mutilated parts in front of her. Going through the trouble of procuring these, and finding a secure location to perform it was an incredible amount of trouble, and if it didn’t work, she was screwed. And doing it all underneath her father’s nose? An incredible feat. She stands, looking down at the effigy, a frown tugging at her lips. She needed this to work. Desperately. How it worked, she did not know, but it seemed like it didn’t.  
“Fuck.” She mumbles, holding her head in her hands. She needed to leave soon, to return so her father didn’t suspect anything. She sighs, picking her head back up and collecting her personal effects, the silence of the room loud in her ears. She blows out the candles she’s lit for the circle, the candles scattered to light the room still just enough to see by. The effect of the lights on the upturned, dusty furniture has her tense, every jumping shadow looking like a person instead of a broken bed frame, or collapsed table.

It’s because of that that her eyes nearly pass over the person that had joined her in the destroyed room, watching her with interest from their position atop an upturned wardrobe. She stops in place, and the two stare at each other. The other’s mask covers their face, but she’s almost certain it’s a man, the hood not quite covering some wildly curly hair and barely hiding his dark, dark eyes, that look almost purple in the flickering light. He waves to her, looking as casual as can be.  
“H-hi.” She starts, internally cursing herself for the false start. She straightens her back and raises her chin. “Did She send you?” There’s a small pause, and slowly, they nod. Her shoulders set. “I need you to kill someone for me.” The assassin remains silent, though she senses he’s amused. “My father.” He tilts his head, studying her. “He goes by Scratch, and he runs the East Empire Company office out here in Windhelm.” He doesn’t acknowledge her words, but she knows that he’s listening, his gaze intense. His silence is unnerving, and her resolve wavers some. “He’s not … he’s not who everyone seems to think he is.” She tells him, and he finally makes a noise, a soft hum of acknowledgment. “He hurts me. My mother. My sister. And I’m doing something about it.” She opens her bag, pulling out a sack of coins. It’s enough, but only just. She’d stolen most of it, her father’s coin paying for his own demise. “This … should be enough. I hope. If … if not, there are … things I can do, maybe, if you …” He holds up a hand, silencing her. Her lips press into a hard line, but she holds the bag out. The assassin drops from the top of the wardrobe, landing without a sound. His hand wraps around hers, turning her palm up, and drops the bag back into it before closing her fingers around it. She watches him in wide-eyed silence, and his eyes meet hers briefly before he nods solemnly, and pulls away. He’s out of the room before she can react. “Wait!” She calls, following him out into the main room of the abandoned home. “Does that mean-” He’s gone. Without a trace. “Did … he take it?” She asks herself, feeling lost.

She wanders home after that, drawing her cloak tight around herself, hiding her face from the guards out at this hour. She’s spent enough time sneaking around to know where the guards stood, and how to stand just out of sight. It’s not as if it’s illegal for her to be out at this hour, no - being a high elf made her suspicious in this city, and if a guard stops her, her father will know. The Dark Brotherhood may work fast, but perhaps not fast enough to save her from her father’s wrath, should he find out. She’d rather not test her limits. 

She presses against the wall of the alley as a guard passes by, and slips behind her and into her house, unlocking the door and shutting it silently. She breathes a soft sigh of partial relief, relocking the door and slipping further into the house.

The upstairs is silent, telling her that her father is unaware of her absence and subsequent return, and her sister’s door is open, showing her laying quietly in her bed, fast asleep. Even from here, she can see the bruise on her cheek, deep black and painful looking. Her lips press together, and she knows - she made the right decision.

Her sleep that night is thin, half expecting to hear her mother’s cry upon discovering her father’s body. Her body is tight, wound up in anticipation, but nothing happens. Daylight streams in through her window, and she hears her parents rise, and still no gasp of revelation comes. She sits up, her feet curling as they touch the freezing stone beneath her. In the main room, she hears her mother’s soft voice, and her father snapping back at her as she is surely stoking the fire in the main room

She dresses promptly, not wanting to face her father’s wrath for her slowness. It’s always freezing in the northern part of Skyrim, necessitating layers … and more layers. She tugs her boots on, and stands, closing her door firmly behind her as she steps out into the main room. Her mother meets her eye from across the room as she carefully begins lunch preparation. Behind her, her father is straightening his robes, looking on with his usual air of dissatisfaction.  
“Damara. Taking your time this morning?” He asks, his sneer barely hidden. She wonders if it makes him feel good to nitpick her for things like that.  
“Sorry…” She murmurs, dipping her head slightly. Her eyes remain on him, though. She doesn’t dare smile at all, but her heart beats a little faster at the thought of the man from the Dark Brotherhood, hoping that despite his refusal of her payment, he still accepted her contract. She’d never, never heard of a contract being refused, not in any book she’d secreted away, not in any rumors. If he’d come, it meant the Night Mother had heard her, had sent him, the contract should already be underway … so she thought.

She sits next to her mother at the table, her hand resting on her arm. Her mother gives her a tight smile.  
“Loramia, I’ll be going now. Try to make sure something gets done around here.” Her father announces loudly. “Understand, Damara? Try to make yourself useful. For once.”   
“Yes father.” She murmurs again, avoiding his eye as he leaves.

The door slams shut behind him, and the fire quakes momentarily from its brief exposure to the wind and snow outside.  
“Grim weather today…” Her mother remarks softly. “Very … foreboding.” Damara watches the door, a smile playing on her lips.  
“I’m not so sure. I have a good feeling about today.” She says, and her mother resumes her work, slicing chicken into neat little cubes.  
“Do you now?” She asks, amusement in her voice. “Well I’d better take advantage of your mood and ask for as many favors as possible before you turn sour.” She slides the bowl of leeks to her. “Why don’t you start with cutting these up?”

It feels like time is crawling. Any moment, it has to happen. A guard, knocking on their door, telling them the grim news. Any moment. It doesn’t happen. Time crawls on, and no one comes. They throw the dumplings into the brick oven, and chores begin. The seconds feel like hours.

“Damara.” Her mother says, pulling her from her thoughts, scowling down at the pair of stockings she’s mending. It takes her a moment to come back to reality, and she blinks at her. “These are done … I know you’re itching to get out. Would you mind bringing your father his lunch?” She sets her work aside, standing.  
“I … yes, sure.” She says, walking over. Her mother carefully packs them into a basket, covering them with cloth.  
“Be careful, alright? He’s in a mood today.” She says. “Oh, and here. Run to the market for me on your way back, will you?” She picks the shopping list up off the table and tucks it into the basket.  
“I will. Thanks.” She says, her anticipation only growing.

She heads out, pulling her cloak tight around herself as she heads out. The wind blows hard as she leaves, and she clenches her teeth together. Most people pay her no mind, though Nords usually have something to say, residual prejudice from the war. Fortunately, her mind is too occupied to really focus on the side eyes she receives. 

It’s quiet today, the wind blowing hard and howling, and she huffs, her breath forming a cloud in the wind. She glances around, only to find herself alone as she walks the path down towards the docks. She hesitates for a moment, considering, but really - what was the harm?

She adjusts her basket in one arm, and holds out her other, the simple spell easy to cast. A small ball of fire appears in her hand, hovering just above her fingers and flickering gently. She holds it as close as she dares, letting the flame warm her as she walks.

It’s quiet as she walks to the heavy door in the city wall, but as she pushes it open, she can hear the commotion of the dock workers. They’re always yelling to each other, shouting, gasping, crying - Crying?

Damara hesitates in place for a moment, listening to the people around the corner, and her eyes widen as she slowly realizes - it happened.

She drops her spell but manages to hold onto her basket as she hurries and rounds the corner, seeing the small crowd around the East Empire Company’s office door, people in panic and shock, and she can only stare.  
“Damara!” Someone says, and suddenly eyes are on her, and she has to fight the bubbling smile that threatens to form on her face.  
“What’s the matter? Is everything okay?” She asks, laying her fake confusion on thick. There are guards pushing the crowd away from the door, and then there’s one leading her away from the scene as well.  
“Come now, please, you shouldn’t … you shouldn’t have to see that.” The man says, voice muffled behind his helmet. Her frustration mounts, but she wants to see it, has to see it.  
“What’s wrong? Is it my father?” She asks, fighting the urge to look around him, to try and catch a glimpse.  
“I’m sorry. It is. He’s been … your father’s been murdered.” The guard says solemnly.  
“I have to see him!” She insists, “I have to! I don’t believe it!” She fights against the guard’s hold, and despite his protests, she breaks free, running into the crowd, the basket dropped on the ground and forgotten.

She pushes past all of the clamouring people, and dodges the guards trying to catch her, pushing the door open and stumbling in. The guards shout, tell her to stop, that it isn’t something she should have to see, but she disagrees. Immensely so, once she actually does see it.

The first thing she can see is the word “MONSTER”, carved into his chest. Rivulets of blood drip from the letters and stain his skin, and his clothing where it has not been ripped away to make room for the word. Once she can focus on anything else, she realizes his face has been sliced up, as well, making him barely recognizable. The fatal wound is certainly the gaping cut across his neck, nearly decapitating him, still oozing blood, dripping down and pooling on the floor beneath him, staining the wood and dripping through the cracks.

She’s just standing there, so the guards easily grab her again and haul her out, and she realizes she should be crying, maybe, but it’s all she can do not to laugh. She hopes it hurt, hopes he was terrified. She almost wished she was there to see it.  
“It’s okay. He’s in a better place.” The guard says, and she realizes she’s making a choked sort of noise, trying to keep her laughter down. She clears her throat, and tries to summon up tears. None come. To hell with it. She screws her face up a little, letting out a fake sob, and buries her face in the guard’s armour. “We’ll find who did this, don’t you worry.” He says. “Everything will be okay, now.” Her fingers grip a little harder against the guard as she tries to hide her face, disguising her laughter as sobs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funeral, and a gift.

It’s snowing the day of the funeral, but when is it not in Windhelm?

Damara huddles up into her cloak as the priestess talks and talks, about what an honorable man her father was, what a kind man, what a smart man. What a fucking joke.

She glances at her sister, who doesn’t look back, her lips pressed together hard as she stares at the ground. Her eyes drift back to the priestess, and the coffin behind her, a group of men prepared to lower the coffin into the ground, as soon as the priestess is done droning on. The casket is already nailed shut, his face unable to be saved enough for a viewing of the body. Good. She hopes he’s as miserable in death as he made their family in life. 

She zones out, tuning out the words as she watches the casket, a small smile playing on her lips. She’s only rocked out of it when the men next to the coffin start moving, slowly lowering the casket into the ground. The priestess had finally finished her speech, and now it was almost over. She forces her smile away again, not bothering to try and force tears. No one else at the funeral was crying either, anyway. Her eyes tear away from the casket to observe the crowd, a few of her father’s workers, and his boss, standing around. They all watch, stone faced as well. No one had wanted to make a speech, not even her mother. She didn’t really expect it, but it did keep appearances up.

As she looks further back, someone catches her eye. Someone not with the crowd, instead leaning on the post next to the stairs to the small graveyard. A tall figure, cloak pulled up around their face to obscure their features. They stare at her, and their head tips to the side, their hood pulling back a bit to reveal a sly smile, their eyes still obscured but their dark curls spilling out from under the hood. They wave, and her eyes widen, and she darts a glance back to the crowd. When she looks back, they’ve disappeared, their rapidly disappearing footprints the only evidence they’d been there at all.

The hair, the height, the casual wave...

It has to be the assassin.

She can’t chase after him, not now, and she isn’t even sure if she wants to. She turns back to the funeral, her heart beating a little faster. Why was he back? Was there something further she needed to do? Was she supposed to pay after the job was done? Everything she had read told her she’d done what she was supposed to to the letter, only to have him reject her payment and proceed with the contract anyway. It probably … was not a good thing that a Dark Brotherhood assassin was … visiting? her. Her sister spares her a sidelong glance now, confusion furrowing her brow as she places a hand on her arm. Damara shakes her head a little, giving her a tight smile, and she turns her attention back to the burial, her father’s casket slowly being covered up and packed down. Her sister squeezes her arm gently, and drops her hand, apparently satisfied with her mediocre response.

The funeral is over shortly after that, and she has to talk to the funeral goers and accept their condolences. By the end of it, she’s fit to explode, her teeth grinding together as people tell her how smart her father was and how magnanimous he could be and how well spoken he always was. He certainly kept up appearances around everyone. If only he could have around her family, too - maybe he’d still be alive. Despite everything, she was satisfied that it was because of her that he was dead, and she was free to live her life now, however she wanted. And he was dead. Gone. Buried in a freezing cold hole in the ground.

She follows her mother home after the service, trailing behind her and her sister as they walk. She can’t stop checking corners, peering into the shadows, trying to see if the assassin had returned. He doesn’t show, and it only makes her more confused.

She spends the rest of her night with her mind elsewhere, sitting at the table and absently watching her mother make a hesitant foray back into potion making, her alchemy station pulled out of a forgotten corner of the basement.  
“It’s … well, now that he’s gone, I’ll of course need to do something to make us money, don’t you think?” Their mother asks Aradia, softly, still hesitant. She doesn’t pay attention to Aradia’s reply, studying her mug of tea instead, like it might show her the answers she was looking for. It sits there, like a mug of tea, and stubbornly does not tell her what she wants to know.

She can’t get him out of her head. She plays with the handle of her mug, her finger stroking the smooth ceramic slowly. His eyes. The way he took her hand. The gentleness in that action, and the brutality he showed her father. He must have … related, in some way. She can’t imagine he means to harm her. If he wished to, he’d already demonstrated that he could, easily. So why play cat and mouse? But if he wasn’t trying to frighten her, why come back around at all?  
“Damara.” She looks up at her sister, looking a little concerned. “Are you okay?”  
“I … think I’m better than I have been in a long time.” She says. Aradia glances at their mother, occupied with cleaning her station up, and sits next to her, pressing close.  
“Yeah. I … don’t know how to feel.” Damara takes her hand, squeezing it a little. “I feel like a terrible person, but I’m … glad.”  
“Everything is going to get better.” Damara says. Aradia smiles, just a little, and nods. “It’s already so much better.”  
“I don’t know who did … that. I don’t know why. But I’m almost thankful.” She says. Damara tried not to betray anything on her face. Over the years, she’s gotten quite good at that. Her sister may welcome their father’s … sudden absence, but there’s no denying it - it’s her fault he is gone, and that is legally questionable. Who is she to demand her sister be an accomplice? She wanted to do her best to protect her sister, and telling her about this would certainly put her in danger.

She just gives her a small smile in return, trying to stay relaxed.  
“I don’t see many downsides to this, either.” She says. Aradia smiles, but is hesitant.  
“We did lose our only source of income.” She says. Damara shrugs, and her sisters eyes slide over to their mother, watching her fuss with the specifications on the alchemy station.  
“She’ll be right back into it. She trained for years before meeting father. And…” She squeezes her hand. “You’ll be free to do what you want too, you know.” A shy smile spreads on her face.  
“Is it terrible that I’m excited?”  
“I don’t think so at all. I’m … quite happy myself.” She admits. Aradia’s smile brightens a little, but then she pauses, and yawns, covering her mouth a little. “It’s been a long day. You should get some sleep.” She notes, sipping at her tea.  
“I feel as if it’s not nearly that late.”  
“Even if it wasn’t, you’re clearly tired.” She says, smiling gently. “Just go to bed. You’ll be much happier with yourself in the morning.” Aradia kisses her cheek and stands, apparently in agreement.  
“You’re right. Just make sure she doesn’t blow us up on accident, won’t you?”  
“I’m sure any interference on my part will cause more explosions than if I left her to her own devices.” Aradia laughs, and their mother looks up, a smile on her face.  
“What are the two of you talking about over there?” She asks.  
“Nothing really. I’m going to bed, that’s all.” Aradia kisses her mother goodnight, and is promptly gathered into a big hug. Their mother murmurs something to her, and kisses the top of her head before sending her off. Damara watches them with a smile.

Yes. She definitely made the right decision.

The next day, she’s still watching, of course, but he doesn’t show again. She has to go about her business, but she’s anticipating it at any moment, him coming back and demanding the payment, or something else, she isn’t sure.

She’s examining a pile of red apples when something does happen, though certainly not what she expects. She’s thrown off when she hears her name called, and she looks up to see the town courier approaching her, a smile on their face as they wave. Her brow furrows as she straightens up from examining an apple, setting it back down to meet the courier halfway. She rarely ever receives mail, really, so this was unexpected.  
“Glad I caught you!” They say. “Got a package for you!”  
“A package?” She asks, curious. “Who from?” She follows up. The courier digs in his bag, apparently searching for it.  
“He didn’t say! Didn’t say much of anything, really. Actually. Nothing at all, funny enough!” He says, pulling the package out. It’s small, wrapped in paper and tied with twine, with a folded piece of paper tied against it. It reads “DAMARA MEGIDO - WINDHELM” on it in messy, spiky, capital letters. “Just gave me this and the coin, and tapped the name! Odd fellow.” Her heart starts beating faster again, nervous. “Nice enough, I figure, seeing he paid me out of town rates to deliver in the city! Glad he caught me before I headed out!” He hands the package over, and her hand wraps around it. Whatever’s inside feels hard, and she pulls it close to herself, looking at it.  
“Can … can you describe him to me?” She asks.  
“Well…” The courier frowns. “Tall? Looked like an adventurer, some interesting leather armour on him! Breton, I think, dark hair and eyes and slightly pointed ears, that whole deal, you know. Curly hair, little long.” He frowns. “Is everything okay?” He asks, a frown crossing his face.  
“Everything is fine.” She says quickly. “I’m sorry. I was only curious. I was … yes, I was expecting this.” She lies easily, smiling to the courier. “Thank you very much.” He looks a bit confused, but smiles back.  
“‘Course! Have a nice day, now!” He says, and heads away. She watches him go, and then looks down to the package.

It’s only about the size of her hand, really, long and thin, and she has no idea what it might be. She doesn’t really want to open it in the market, though. It’s certainly from the man from the Dark Brotherhood, because who else could it possibly be? But there’s nowhere she trusts to go to out here to open it, and it would be strange to return home without the food she needs. She presses her lips together and tucks the package into the satchel around her waist, the small package fitting easily. It would have to wait at least until she returned home.

She rushes the rest of the trip, only giving cursory glances at the food to make sure it’s good enough before walking home quickly, keeping her head down to avoid anyone stopping her. The basket holding their food is clutched tight to her chest, trying to puzzle out in her mind what it could possibly be. She’s almost sure it’s nothing terrible, but she still doesn’t understand why. What made him want to reach out to her? Quite possibly for the same reason he refused her payment.

She sets the basket on the table, mind elsewhere, and heads into her room. It’s silent in the house, her mother and sister out for the day, but she still latches the door before she even pulls the package out, examining it.

She sits on her bed, plucking the note off and unfolding it, studying the spiky writing intently.

_Damara-_  
_A small parting gift, before I leave Windhelm. I figured you would know what to do with him. Good luck._  
_-K.M._

She frowns at the paper. It’s clear to her that he’s implying this is their last interaction. She’s relieved, but only a little. She can’t help but wonder, why even bother, then, if this was it?

She turns her attention to the parcel on the bed beside her, and picks it up. Know what to do with _him?_ She unwraps the paper, slowly revealing the object within. It’s a soul gem, but not quite. She’s seen soul gems before, but none like this. Its usual pearlescent sheen is a deep, dark purple, a cloudy black blooming from inside it. As she watches, the cloudy black shifts, slowly, ever moving and twisting, and she realizes what it is.

A black soul gem. 

For holding human souls. 

Know what to do with him. With _him._

She crumples the paper it was held in, tossing it to the side on her bed to throw out later, a wicked smile on her face as she watches the soul move within the gem. She doesn’t know much of anything about necromancy, but she wonders if he’s aware in there, or if his consciousness is gone. Either way, he was bound to be miserable, which certainly made her smile. 

What to do, what to do? She plays with the gem for a moment, considering it. Well. A good solution would have to come later. She fishes her keys out from her pocket, and unlocks her lockbox next to the bed, placing the gem in carefully, and locking it once more. 

The rest of the day and into the night, her mind occupied. She goes to bed with her mind elsewhere, half on the past, half on the future. With her father gone, she could do absolutely whatever she wanted, and ever since she was little, she’s wanted to be a mage. She could do little things, now, but destruction magic had always called to her. She’d thought about going to the College, but now she really could. 

She tosses in bed, looking up at the high window, streaming moonlight into her room. It was almost certainly what she wanted, but was it for the best? To leave her sister and mother here? Alone? Perhaps not, but they were resourceful, and safer than they’d ever been. She shakes her head a little, resolving to think about it later. 

Not thinking on that gave her more time to think on the assassin from the Dark Brotherhood. She’s relieved that he’s gone now, telling her that their contract certainly is over. But part of her is … disappointed. She knows he felt a kinship with her. He had to. What else could explain his actions? He certainly had taken his life in … a direction, after he escaped his own hell. She wonders why, why he chose the Dark Brotherhood. Were they the first to accept him? Was he accustomed to that level of violence already? 

Was it ridiculous to be this curious about him? 

She wasn’t sure. 

She falls asleep with her mind occupied, and a heaviness in her heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was that good? did i do it good? i wrote the last part and am posting it still a little residual drunk so i have no idea.  
> next chapter is gonna timeskip some


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a quest is given.

Time passes, as it is wont to do. Life progresses rapidly now that she isn’t being held in place. She has a lot of plans, namely, getting the fuck out of Windhelm.

Another blighted snowscape is not particularly what she wanted, but it’s where she needed to be. She set off to Winterhold as soon as she made up her mind about leaving - surprisingly quickly. After all, she had no reason to stay. Her mother was fine, and so was her sister, her mother taking her potion-making back up with speed, her sister tentatively poking into the business of adventuring.

So she went to the College. Got accepted. Started studying.

Got bored.

She sighs as she looks out the window, overlooking a hundred foot drop into icy waters. Her breath fogs the glass lightly, and she frowns a bit. Sitting here with this stupid parchment did nothing for her, really. Honestly. How could you make magic … boring? The mages at the college boasted that the dragonborn themself had once been Archmage of the college, that they had gone on many expeditions for them and had gone on many dangerous quests. Stupid fuck must have took them all up, since now all there was to do was scribble notes on form and technique.

Damara pushes her parchment away, standing up from her desk. She needed a break. She was tired of the other students, the professors, the townspeople. She pulls her cloak on, frowning, as she supposes she could just … go out and collect ingredients. Not the most exciting of outings, but … it was something.

She makes her way out of the living quarters, out into the freezing courtyard. The college is not typically bustling, though it’s an active college these days. People flocked to the things the Dragonborn’s hands had touched, though they were long dead. Seemed a bit silly to her. After all, how much of their influence had been preserved? Certainly almost none. The adventuring and dangerous questing had all but disappeared, despite the Dragonborn themself being a huge adventurer.

Her boots touch real ground, now into the edge of the town. They called this part of it “Old Winterhold”, which isn’t creative, but apt. The few buildings that had remained after the great collapse were out here, the newer buildings just beyond.

This part of town is quieter, which made it the perfect location for her ingredient garden. No one liked to be out here, among the ghosts. 

The ruins make her shiver as she passes, but in a way she’s never minded. Her hands brush against the rough wooden boards of a collapsed home as she passes, but she stops, for a moment, grabbing hold of the passing frightened sensation. The collapse was so long ago, and Winterhold was rebuilding, but the thought of everything falling apart like that - a true horror.

Her feet brush up against a snowberry bush, and she blinks, the plant drawing her back to what she was supposed to be doing.

Snowberry was so common, but she picks it anyway, getting her mind off what it must have felt like to be in the middle of the collapse. She stands, wrapping the sprigs into a cloth before placing them neatly into her satchel. Time to move on.

She wanders into the ruins, going to the house that was still mostly standing in the middle of it all. Not much more than half the house remains, a snow bank drifting into the little house on its open side, but the important part is the garden it has next to it. She’d discovered the small ingredient garden near the start of her schooling, overgrown and wild, but she’d got it back into working order again. Now she had all kinds of things growing, spells placed carefully to keep it warm, but not so obvious people might find it. She sets her satchel down inside the house, out of the wind and snow, and gets to gathering.

After an hour or so, she’s gotten a small pile of ingredients. They’re bundled carefully and put into her satchel, and she feels a little satisfaction. For the most part today she only cleaned things up a little, fussing with her poisonous plants carefully. They were always her favorites, and they fascinated her. The practical application of poisons was not … encouraged. But still.

She gathers her bag up, plans to visit the inn forming in her head, wanting something to eat after all that. She’s about to leave when something feels … off. The hairs on the back of her neck raise, and she feels watched. She straightens, looking around sharply. The wind howls through the posts of the crumbling houses, and the snow swirls through the air. She’s alone, but the feeling is eerily similar to what she felt, years ago, when…

When she met the assassin, her brain fills in helpfully, though she doesn’t particularly want to think it.

She shakes her head, huffing softly. The feeling is gone, anyway, and probably a symptom of her paranoia. Her mind returns to food, but only partly.

The inn is quiet when she enters. It’s not the new one, built across town, but the one that had been around for years. She likes this inn better. Quieter. And Rufioh didn’t like it here. Her mood dampens at the thought of him, a frown flitting across her face. Little bastard’s dad owned the other bar, and besides. It was a much shorter distance from there to the Zahhak’s forge and therefore, Horuss’s dick.

She’s barely paying attention as she approaches the counter, where the innkeeper is talking to the redguard girl he just hired to run drinks.

“-Weird, but he’ll tip you well. Quiet type. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t dwell on it, he only comes ‘round maybe once every few months.” The girl is clearly huffy, but the innkeeper is all done with her now that Damara is there. “Miss. Megido! What can I do for you today?” She smiles a little.

“Have any sweet rolls?” She asks.

“They’re down in the oven right now, I’ll have her bring you one to the table.”

She pays for her food and sits down, pulling the book she was supposed to read from her bag. It’s not long before the girl brings her sweet roll over, and she murmurs a thank you, beginning to pull it apart slowly and eat it absently as she reads.

It’s about destruction magic, which makes it mildly interesting, though again. She just wants real world experience. It’s all well and good to throw fireballs at cutouts, but it wasn’t … real.

She sighs softly.

The door to the inn opens, letting a blast of cold air into the inn. She pays it no mind, just frowns and pulls into herself further. Distantly, she hears the innkeeper speaking.

“Makara. Keeping warm?” The response is so soft she doesn’t catch it at all, though she doesn’t care enough to actively listen. She hears the scrape of a chair across the rough stone floor, clearly being dragged in front of the fire, though she doesn’t care to look. She traces a line in the book with her finger, trying to commit it to memory, wishing she’d had the foresight to have brought a vial of ink and a quill.

She notices movement out of the corner of her eye, and she looks up to see the girl, holding a bottle of ale.

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“On the house.” She says. Damara pauses, looking the girl over. The girl winks, and Damara feels her face heat a little.

“Oh. Thank you.” She says, surprised.

“I’m Porrim. Maryam.”

“Damara Megido.” She says, a small smile crossing her face. “It’s nice to meet you.” Porrim sets the ale down on the table.

“You’re from the College?” She asks.

“Yes, I-” She’s cut off from answering by a loud bang as the door to the inn slams shut, and the two look towards it. The inn is quiet, and the chair that had been dragged out next to the fire is empty. Porrim scowls.

“Ass.” She mutters. “How hard is it to put things back?”

“Who was that?” Damara asks.

“Just some regular. Well. Not so regular. The owner says his name’s Makara, but I think it’s his last name.” Damara hums, and an irritated look flashes across Porrim’s face. “He’s so creepy, and rude! He doesn’t even tal-” 

“Porrim!” The owner shouts from the basement. “Come down a moment!” Porrim sighs, and Damara watches her push down her irritation.

“Sorry ... another time, I suppose.” She says, looking back at Damara.

“Oh, you’ll see me again.” She says, grinning. Porrim flashes a smile back, and disappears downstairs.

Damara’s spirit is lifted by the time she heads back to the college an hour later. Porrim hadn’t had a chance to sneak back to her, but they’d shared looks the whole time as the rush started and some of the more rowdy customers had invaded the place. She’d had to leave though, the tug of unfinished work calling to her.

She steps outside, the warmth of the inn immediately getting leached from her body. She shivers, curling into herself. After a moment, she realizes it’s not just the cold making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She feels watched, again. She shakes her head a little. There was definitely something wrong with her. Her paranoia had been terrible in the year following her … contract. But there was no one coming for her. No one knew, and no one ever would.

She straightens up, her shoulders setting, and walks away from the inn, heading back up the path to the college. Behind her, she hears the door to the inn slam, and she jumps, darting a glance back. Just someone going in. That’s all. Nothing important.

She walks back up to the college slowly, her mind occupied. She’s caught off-guard when someone calls her name as she enters the courtyard.

“Miss Megido!” She jumps, but holds it together, looking towards the source of the call. Shit.

It’s the Archmage, of all people.

“Sir.” She says, feeling tense. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine.” He waves his hand, dismissive. “I need to talk to you about something.” She blinks. “Oh ... certainly.” He gestures for her to follow him into the Hall of the Elements.

As they walk inside, he turns to her.

“I’d like to have this conversation in private, if you don’t mind coming into my quarters for a moment?” He asks, and she hesitates, but nods.

“May I ask … what this is about?” The Archmage’s eyes flit to a small group of students sitting next to the pool in the middle of the room, chatting amongst themselves.

“Your professors mentioned something about you seeking … real world experience?” He says, and she perks up.

“Really?” She says, feeling her anxiety melt somewhat. 

“But this is really something I would like to keep … quiet. So if you don’t mind?”

She has some reservations as she enters the Archmage’s quarters, but the mystery of this all is … intriguing.   
  
His quarters are far fancier than the bare student’s quarters, though it’s to be expected. He walks over to a desk, nearby, taking out two golden goblets and a bottle of spiced wine.

“Can I pour you a glass?”   
“I’m … fine, thank you. I had a drink at the inn earlier.” He nods, pouring himself a small bit. “What is this about?”

“It’s no secret that you’re a very promising student, Damara.” She straightens a little. “Very talented in all your classes, especially destruction magic.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks. I simply state facts.” He waves a hand. “I’m not one for flattery.” He takes a sip of his wine, and Damara watches him, feeling a slight amount of unease. The Archmage was odd. “An … associate of mine is going on an expedition for me.” She tips her head. “He’s an extremely odd fellow, and I’d like to stress that before you meet him … should you agree, of course.”

“In what way?” She asks. It’s the Archmage’s turn to look distinctly uncomfortable.

“I understand you’ve been known to have some … intrigue in … things such as the … occult. The Daedric, the necromantic.”

“Only academic intrigue, sir.” She says, reflexively, paling slightly.

“Sure. Of course.” He smiles a little. “I believe you, certainly.” He takes another sip, and eyes her. “Just like the rest of us. I pass no judgement. I myself have dabbled. However, there are consequences when one moves further into the world of Daedric magic and cults.” He steeples his fingers. “Our associate has run into such consequences. The event that resulted in his affliction has not been disclosed to me. It matters very little I suppose. The long and short of it is that … he cannot speak. Or, genuinely, make any sort of noise, and I know that it was the result of some involvement with a … Daedric cult.”

Something in Damara’s gut twists, feeling the pangs of unfortunate recognition. The assassin didn’t speak either. But that meant nothing. The assassin could have not spoken by choice, that was reasonable. Besides, that had happened so long ago now. She hated her paranoia coming back to haunt her, now.

“That is … interesting.” She says, trying to push her paranoia away.

“It is.” He agrees. “I have known him several years, and he has allowed me to perform some experiments, reluctantly. He  _ can  _ talk, but no sound comes out. His throat works, and yet … and I have not been able to understand the magic behind it. I have my … theories, but-”

“What do you think happened?” She asks, bluntly. The Archmage blinks, then grins.

“Something so powerful that not even I can detect? I make no claim to being the most powerful magic user in Skyrim, but … I still believe that I could at least figure out what it was that was cast on him, if not a way to reverse it … had it been magic cast from a fellow mortal.”

“But…”

“I don’t think it was. I think … and I should hope you do not share my speculations with him … I believe he acquired such a curse from a Daedric entity. Perhaps even a lord.” The air is still between them for a moment, until the Archmage sighs. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, though I wish to know, to fill my curiosity.”

“If I were to go with him, how in Oblivion do we communicate?”

“Telepathically.” He says, with a shrug. She presses her lips together. “He’s cooperated with me for many years, and we were eventually able to figure out a single way we could possibly allow him to communicate. I originally thought big. Grand spells, but it was like casting at a brick wall. But after a fit of desperation, I cast a simple psychic link between us. It worked.”

“How simple?” She asks.

“Extremely.” He shakes his head a little. “It’s a daily spell. You’ll have to renew it every morning. You’ll cast it on him, so he would be able to communicate … basic thoughts. Feelings. One word fragments, basically. It’s quite … unreliable at times. You’ll need to stay relatively close. The connection wears too thin to discern after about 200 feet, but even so you’ll still feel his presence, should he be alive, even after a fairly great distance.” Damara folds her arms, thinking this over. “I don’t believe you would be in any danger from him, if you’re concerned. I understand the hesitation, but he’s given up any involvement in the occult. I mean … wouldn’t you?”

“What are we looking for?” The Archmage brightens significantly. 

“Ah! This is of particular interest to me, and he … seemed to be very intrigued by it as well. I’ve heard rumors of a Dwarven ruin known as Oft’grimnar. They allegedly had a great number of impressive medical machines there. Bring beings back from the brink of death, even change their bodies should need be.” She’s intrigued, despite not much caring for restoration magic.

“Change their bodies?”

“Complete changes in their physiology. So the rumors say.” He grins. “What do you think?”

“I think … it’s worth a look.” She says, feeling a slight hum of excitement.

“I’d hoped you would be interested. There is … a certain level of danger involved.”

“I should think.” She says, which amuses the Archmage. “But why do you need me?” His amusement fades.

“I need … insurance. Our friend seemed a little too interested, for whatever reason. Perhaps related to his voice. He’s quite capable on his own, however … I don’t want him messing around with things beyond his understanding. His background is not with instruments of magic at all. He’s managed to learn a few stealth tricks, but he’s no mage. I want these machines in perfect condition, and besides. There’s no way for him to know what they really do. He’s quite a valuable asset. I’d hate to lose him, simply because he fussed with things beyond his understanding. Look where that’s landed him, already.”

“So I’m to stop him? How, if he’s as capable as you say?”

“You’re also quite a force yourself.” He says. Damara tips her head. “...I don’t think it will come to that if you gained his trust. I assume he has very few personal connections, due to his … nature. You’ll be spending some time with him.”

“I’m not very good at being friendly, sir.” She says.

“Neither is he. But I think it’d be easy to get close to him. No need to betray him, should he listen to my warnings not to touch anything, so I should hope he heeds my instructions. Just keep him steady, and clear the ruins. After that, we can have the experts in.”

“And what if he doesn’t?” She asks. The Archmage frowns.

“Use your best judgement. However I am … prioritizing the magical artifacts. Adventurers are a dime a dozen, even if I do lose his unique skills.”

“Which are?” She asks. 

“Don’t worry about that. Once you’ve secured the equipment, we’ll be having a great many more conversations. If you’re skilled enough to complete this, there will be more expeditions in the future, and I’m sure you know … a good word from the right person can put you in an advantageous position.” He smiles. “So. What do you think?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“I can’t afford an I don’t know. I need our people there before anyone else gets wind of our expedition. I need your yes or no now, so you can leave tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” She asks, scoffing with disbelief. He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t…”

“It’s quite a lot, I know.” He shrugs. “I think you’re up to the task. Do you?” She hesitates.

“...Alright. I’ll go.” He beams.

“Wonderful. I’ll settle any issues with the professors.” He plays with his goblet. “And you’ll find, if you’re successful … you’ll be well rewarded.” She feels tense, uncertain how she felt about all of this. “Tomorrow morning. You can meet him in my quarters, and head off immediately. And here.” He pulls a tome out of his desk drawer, handing it over to her. “Learn this. You’ll be using it every day, so I expect it will be quite familiar, soon.” She takes it, the tome quite light. It must be extremely simple, then. “Rest well, Damara. Busy days ahead.” She holds the book close.

“Busy days indeed.” She agrees, nerves settling in her stomach like lead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a startling morning discovery and a friendly stranger

Dawn greets her like an old enemy.

The blue light of early morning hits her, and she shifts under her blankets, reluctantly sitting up. Her sleep had been nothing more than her laying still, mind racing a mile a minute. 

Her feet touch the cold stone of the floor, but she braves it, standing to walk to her scant wardrobe. The closest thing to “armor” she has is her robes, and the Archmage had not offered anything more. She presses her lips together at the sight. It occurs to her now that this … may be insufficient.

She pulls her robes on, tying them tight around her waist, as if that would protect her. They’re supposed to help center her as she casts destruction magic, making her spells stronger and easier to cast. But the material is nothing but cloth. Not for the first time, she rethinks what she’s doing. But, there was no way to back out now, and besides. The whole prospect of this was intriguing. How can she not go?

She picks up the pack she’s thrown together, swinging it over her shoulder. A few health potions, a few books, a bit of food, and, of course, her soul gem. The note that came with it is folded up next to it, the bundle wrapped carefully with cloth.

She knows she’s all set, yet she’s reluctant to leave.

It’s silent as she enters the courtyard, the snow from the night still fresh on the ground. It’s light enough that the wind has swirled it into little drifts and banks on the stone walk. The wind howls through the pillars for a moment, and then it’s silent again.

Her feet make the first marks in the snow on the walk, and she slips into the Hall of the Elements.

The door to the Archmage’s office is unlocked, and she steps inside, walking upstairs.

“Makara! Is that you? By the nine-”

“No, sir, it’s me.” She calls back. The Archmage swears, and then appears at the top of the stairs.

“Come, quickly.” He demands, his cloak swirling as he storms back into his office. Damara hurries up the stairs, entering the main chamber. The lights are dim now, and the Archmage is pacing.

“He’s not here?” She asks. He looks up sharply.

“He’s not. He’s  _ gone. _ ” Damara feels an odd sense of relief and disappointment.

“So what happens now, sir?” She asks.

“You’ll have to get there first. And  _ fast.  _ I cannot believe that  _ idiot, _ going to fuss with things that do not concern him!” Damara frowns.

“By myself?” She asks. His frown darkens.

“Unless you have a better alternative.”

“Well, isn’t there anyone who could possibly … why can’t you come?” She asks, starting to feel indignant.

“I’m a very busy man, Damara. And I need you on his trail  _ now. _ Who knows when the slippery little bastard left? He could have hours of a head start on you!”

“Well … fuck!” She huffs, folding her arms. “What in Oblivion am I supposed to do?” The Archmage sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I know he’s traveling by foot, so if we were to get you a horse, you might catch up with him, more than likely overtake him.”

“Why would he travel on foot-”

“It doesn’t matter.” He interrupts. “I need you on your way.” He moves over to his desk, rummaging around. “I’ll give you coin for the horse, and a map. I assume you can follow a map?”

“Obviously.” She mumbles. He pays her no mind.

“Good.” There’s a clinking noise, and a large bag of coins is set on top of the desk. She eyes it. The last time that much gold had been in her hands was … by the nine she had to get her mind off that. What was wrong with her? Just because the assassin didn’t speak didn’t mean he  _ couldn’t _ . Why would the Archmage be working so closely with an assassin anyway? He wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be him.

“Damara.” The Archmage snaps. She looks up quickly. “Here. A map. Not the most precise, but we’ve no time.” He lays it down across his desk, taking his quill out of its well to circle something.

“Is that it?” She asks. He nods.

“This whole area is a ravine. It opened relatively recently, in the last ten years, out in the mountains of the Rift, after a large quake. A single tower of the ruins was revealed in the collapse, but it seems you can access the rest of the ruins through it.”

“And I’m to secure it by myself, now?”

“Yes. You’ll have to clear the way. No room untouched, you hear? If those machines are in there, I want them found.”

“So there’s no guarantee they exist?”

“Of course not. This is a guessing game, as with all expeditions. But, obviously you’ll keep anything that is of strictly … monetary value. Any magical artifacts, I want, but consider anything else your compensation.” She bites her lip, looking at the map for a moment until the Archmage rolls it up, handing it over. “Take this, and the money. Get a horse, and go. Quickly.” She nods, still feeling off kilter. “And should you meet him on the road, take care of him. I won’t have him disturbing our work.”

“Take care of him?” The Archmage nods, expression serious.

“Whatever is necessary. I cannot risk him disturbing those ruins.” Her eyes widen in disbelief.

“You want me to-”

“Anything can happen out on the roads, Damara.” He sits back in his chair, giving her a smile. “Anything at all. What does or does not happen, well. That’s nothing anyone has to know about, is it?”

“Sir, I…”

“You’ve got a lot of potential, Miss Megido.” He interrupts her. “You know … Solitude is looking for a new court wizard. They’ve asked me to make a recommendation.” She straightens up a little. “But I can’t keep them waiting. Understand?” Her eyes meet the floor.

“Yes sir.”

The horse is an easy matter, even if it is short notice for the stablemaster. She’s on the road faster than she thought possible, riding unsteadily on the horse initially but getting the hang of it after a while. It’s not an incredibly fast thing, but it travels faster than any person on foot. She supposes she could make up for the head start the man she was supposed to … take care of had on her.

She had a lot on her mind now. The Archmage had given her a bare-bones description, which she felt unsteady with. He was a breton, tall and thin. Leather armor, and he wears a cowl, which covers the lower half of his face. Dark hair and eyes. Told her she’d know it was him when she saw him.

Of course her brain picked up all the similarities between him and the description she’d gotten years ago from the courier.

She feels the compulsion to take the black gem from her pack, to smooth her fingers over the worn paper, like she did whenever her father was on her mind. Just to remind herself she did what she had to, and that someone … someone cared. The assassin had taken it personally. Had taken care of it for her. But she’s not very steady on this horse, and the last thing she wants to do is take her hands from the reins. 

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do about him. If it  _ is  _ him, there’s no way she could possibly do what the Archmage wants her to do. Provided she even sees him, or catches up with him. What would she do if he had managed to get inside and messed with the machinery? It was quite likely, if he was who she thought he was. All the alluding to him being  _ quite  _ capable.

Her mind flashes back to her father’s dead body.

Yes, she should think he is quite capable.

It’s as she dwells on this when the hairs on the back of her neck start to raise. She sits up on the horse, which slows. It’s silent, snow falling gently from the darkening sky. It’s picturesque - peaceful. The moons hang low in the sky, the sun dipping just below the horizon. She looks around, the horse snorting nervously.

Trees and brush surround her, darkens the path, makes it hard to see just beyond. She strains to look in, and a rustle to her right makes her look. The horse stomps nervously, huffing quietly as it stands. Damara’s hands grip the reins tightly, gently plodding the horse forward, trying to move her slowly, and then the bushes rustle again, and a pair of yellow eyes catch the moonlight. A growl comes from the bushes, and the horse rears, panicked, and Damara only just stays on the horse as it bolts. Behind them, a wolf bursts from the bushes, and Damara tries to regain control. No luck. She screams as the horse goes off the path, the wolf nearly at them.

Her right hand grasps the reins firmly, her thighs squeezing either side of the horse as branches slap against her face. She can barely focus, trying to cast as she’s being dragged along for this ride. What would work? What could work?

She’s panicking, and the only thing she can think to cast is flames, shooting them at the wolf blindly. She hears it yipe, but a quick glance tells her she only threw it off for a moment. It’s at that moment that a large branch smacks her across her chest, throwing her from the horse. Her right arm, tangled in the reins, is stuck, wrenching her shoulder from its socket. She can’t help but to scream. The horse, startled, turns sharply, and they’re on cobble again. She can’t focus, the horse dragging her along by what has to be a dislocated shoulder, the wolf lunging for her. She casts again, the flames already ready to go, and makes a direct hit. The wolf screams, its mangy fur catching alight. Tears fill her eyes, and she’s only just able to see the wolf as it disappears into the woods again, little flames licking at its fur. The horse continues to run, and soon the wolf is out of sight. She, however, is still being dragged. She can’t hold back her screaming anymore, desperately trying to untangle her hand, barely able to tug what with her position. Her feet scrabble at the ground, trying to slow the horse somehow, but this is a Skyrim draft horse, not easily dissuaded by things like weight or drag.

Her left hand scrabbles at the looped reins, clawing at the leather wrapped snugly around her wrist. After a moment she wraps her hand around it, letting the flames burst again from her palm, and it separates, dropping her to the ground as the horse runs into the night.

She lays there, in shock, her heart racing and her shoulder screaming.

The snow falls silently around her.

It takes her a long time to recover enough to move. Her arm is absolutely out of its socket, and she grits her teeth, dragging herself up into a sitting position. Her arm hangs next to her, useless, and her breathing stutters, looking down at it. The pain makes her want to collapse once more, but she knows the wolf couldn’t possibly be that far away. She gets up slowly and unsteadily, unable to balance properly.

At the least, she had her scarce luggage on her person, and none of it was lost as the horse made its escape. She grits her teeth as she looks at her shoulder. Visibly, it wasn’t bad … but it hurts like a son of a bitch. She lays her good hand on her shoulder, wincing, and tries to call up healing hands.

She remembers a moment too late that things need to be set before they can be healed through magic. Pain lances through her arm, and she lets out a pained cry, short and frustrated, her teeth gritted.

“Fuck!” She yells. The snow muffles her shout, and she looks around, trying to figure out what to do. If she can just pop it back into place, her healing spell should work to repair anything torn. Her eyes settle on a nearby tree. It would have to do. 

She leans against the tree on her good side, looking at her shoulder to see how she should go about this. It’s popped out behind where it’s supposed to be, so she moves, the back of her shoulder pressed gently against the tree. She takes a deep breath, and slams her shoulder against it. She can feel it pop back into place, painful and overwhelming. She wants to collapse, but she stays standing, blinking tears back, her breathing fast and laden with pain.

The golden healing spell is already dancing between her fingers, and she places her hand gently on the damaged shoulder, allowing the healing warmth to flow over and into her skin, the pain lessening swiftly. The golden spell fades, and she rolls her shoulder. It twinges, uncomfortable, but far from the excruciating pain she was in before. Okay. Everything is okay.

Except. Her horse is gone, and she doesn’t know where the hell she is, and she doesn’t see a single sign anywhere. The trees are tall and the moons are low, meaning there’s no way to gain any sense of direction. She slips her map out of her bag, looking hopelessly at the path she was supposed to take, and wonders if she’s still on it at all.

She folds it up again, and looks around. The immediate solution is to start walking. Worst case scenario, things start looking familiar, and she has to double back. She knows she wasn’t far from a crossroad before all this, so hopefully she’ll come across some sort of signage. She straightens a little. Fine. She can do this. She’d gotten through worse.

She lets the idle flames spell in her palm provide a small amount of heat and light as she walks, the snow slowly falling and gradually dusting the path. She leaves footprints now, though within an hour they’d be buried.

She starts to feel hopeless, after a while, because nothing looks familiar, and she really hadn’t been that far from the cross roads, so something was wrong. During their brief dive into the woods, could she have passed it? Where  _ is  _ she? It’s fully night, now, and she’s lost. Officially lost.

It’s then that she catches a glimpse of warm yellow light ahead of her. Her footsteps pick up, moving faster, and she sees it again. A window, casting light into the darkness. Yes! She’s running now, towards it, and stumbles onto the property. Its sign reads “Nightgate Inn”, and her body floods with relief. She’s shaking, now that the fear is losing its grip on her, and she has made it to a place where she can finally get a grip on her surroundings. She enters, and a blast of warmth greets her, but nothing else.

She stands in the room, blinking in confusion, the inn silent. It’s obviously occupied, the fire blazing in the stone fire pit, but there’s not a sign of a single patron or even innkeeper.

“Is someone there?” Someone calls from a distance. It sounds like a woman.

“Um…” Damara starts. “Yes? Hello?” There’s the sound of someone coming up steps, and then a Khajiit woman appears behind the counter, grinning.

“Well! Hello there!” She says, leaning on the counter. “Don’t just stand in the door! Have a seat with me!” Damara finally leaves the doorway, entering the inn. It’s cozy in here, though she was thrown off by the silence, and the woman’s overt friendliness. “What can I get you to eat?”

“Something warm.” Damara says, and the woman laughs.

“Well. That’s not unexpected, I suppose. You have a seat, I’ll be back with a sweetroll or two.” Damara watches warily as the woman leaves back down the stairs once more. After a second, she sits, her shoulder twinging unpleasantly. She winces, pressing her lips together in worry. Maybe she should have paid more attention in restoration classes, because this certainly had not healed quite right. She sighs.

  
Who is she fooling? What is she doing out here? If a  _ wolf _ was enough to nearly defeat her, what does she think she’s doing out here? Much less being a palace  _ mage _ . She had been too comfortable with her books for too long. She isn’t near ready for real world experience. She puts her head on the counter with a soft  _ thud _ .

How is she supposed to catch up with him now? With no horse, and she’s already resting for the night. But she couldn’t go on, it’s dark, and she’d already been injured once. Certainly this  _ man _ , he’ll be walking further into the night, and resting shorter, if he’s as experienced as the Archmage made him seem. Her quest was already a failure.

She hears the woman clear her throat, and she jumps, her head flying up. The Khajiit woman, having approached silently, regards her with amusement.

“I’ve brought you a sweetroll. Would you care for a warm mug of mulled wine? Or perhaps a bowl of stew?”   
“Yes to both, please.” She says. A warm sweetroll is set in front of her and the woman turns to the small fire pit beside her to ladle out some mulled wine and something else, which smelled like rabbit stew, from the pots warming above it.

Damara begins to pick apart the sweetroll. She can tell the woman had hurriedly stuck it back in the oven to make it warm, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s warm, and it’s not half bad. The Khajiit places her mug and bowl in front of her, and leans back against the wall with her own mug of mulled wine, studying Damara. Damara is too hungry to care, and begins to eat her stew.

“So! What is your name? Strange to see a high elf in such cold.” She says. Damara raises an eyebrow, looking back up at her.

“It’s Damara. Damara Megido. And I could say the same for you. You are?” She waits for an introduction.

“You may call me Kodo'shaa. And I have grown very accustomed to the cold. Does my accent sound Elsweyr? No. I was born in this snowy wasteland.”   
“A fact you seem most happy with.” Damara says, sarcasm clear in her voice. She smirks as she sips her mulled wine. It's been on the fire for too long, which she does not comment on. Kodo'shaa laughs.

“You are very funny, Miss Megido. You make for an entertaining guest. Tell me … do you intend to stay the night?” Damara looks around at the completely silent inn.   
“Well … do you have the room?” She asks. The Khajiit smirks in amusement.

“For you? Certainly. You should be honored, we’re very busy. A record two guests in one week.” Damara focuses on her. 

“You have another guest?” She asks, trying to hide her overt interest. Could it be him? The woman hums.

“No, they only stopped for a moment, for a sweetroll, like they always get.”

“You know them?” She asks, and then covers. “I don’t see you having too many regulars.”

“They stop by on their way to the College every now and then. Guests are memorable, due to their rarity, but especially so when they act so strangely.”   
“Strangely how?” She asks.

“Would you know, I have never heard them talk. Not once.” Kodo'shaa shrugs. “They used to write their order every time, but it was the same every time. They are always polite enough, though they rarely stay the night.”   
“Why do you say “they”?” She interrupts, prying maybe a little too much. The Khajiit woman laughs.

“It’s hard to tell with you furless ones. With differences as subtle as the width of the jawline. And theirs is almost always shielded with their hood. Usually I can tell by the pitches of your voices, but they have never spoken to little old me.” She shrugs. “Perhaps a man? Certainly they are tall. But they are a Breton, most of them are as such. She waves a hand. “Such interest. Are you … looking for such a person?” She asks. Damara hesitates.

“Perhaps.” She says, weakly, knowing the Khajiit has her figured out. Kodo'shaa grins.   
“Tell me why. No need to worry. I just like to  _ know _ things. And perhaps, if you share, I may also share. I get so bored around here. They won’t be back for at least three moon cycles, anyway. I won’t spoil your plans.”

“What if you disagree with my plans?” She asks, challenging.   
“They are only a customer.”

“And so am I. How do I know you won’t share my plans with someone who wants to wrong me?” Kodo'shaa shrugs.

“You don’t. But I know plenty about this person you … may or may not be seeking. So this could be mutually beneficial. And, how about this. Tell me a good enough story, and I’ll let you stay for free.” Damara weighs her options for a moment before sighing, raising an eyebrow.    
“Doesn’t seem like a very business friendly practice. But fine.” She sips her mulled wine again, thinking. “We were supposed to go to a … dwarven ruin together.” She says, choosing her words carefully. “Instead, he left the night before to reach there alone. I’m supposed to intercept him ... for the Archmage of the College. Depending on how willing he is to compromise, perhaps this will turn out okay.” Kodo’shaa hums thoughtfully

“He did seem to be in an awful hurry.” She says, her gray eyes dark and intrigued. “What ruin are you seeking?” Damara sighs, debating whether or not to share. After a moment, she concedes.

“My quest is probably a bust, anyway. I’ve already been bested by a wolf. I’m utterly unprepared for this, so I suppose this is no harm.” She drinks her mulled wine once more, slumping over the table slightly, her chin resting heavily on her free hand. “We’re seeking a ruin called Oft’grimnar.” Kodo’shaa hums, knowingly. “You know of it?”   
“I’ve heard mention, though I thought it was lost.”   
“It was. The Archmage says tremors have moved the ground, revealing a tower from what they believe to be part of Oft’grimnar. Over in the mountains in the Rift, to the far East.” The Khajiit’s thoughts are unnervingly unreadable, and she continues to watch Damara as she speaks, the curious glint in her eye her only tell.

“You think you have already failed? Then why even try to seek information on this person?”   
“Because … I think I know him. He … did me a favour a long time ago, but left before I could … properly thank him, I suppose.”   
“Ah.” She says, voice full of understanding. Damara feels a spike of fear, but the Khajiit’s smile is smug and lazy, satisfied with her read on the situation. “A favour? I can guess what  _ favour  _ that might have been … that armor they go around wearing is unusual … but I have seen it before.” She pauses, dramatically. “Brotherhood armor.”   
“So he is part of the Brotherhood.” She says, feeling her heart pick up, excited and scared in turns. It  _ was  _ him. Exactly as she had feared … and hoped.

“Now this  _ is  _ interesting. Maybe you’ll earn that room yet.” Kodo'shaa says, tapping her claws against the tin mug in her paws. “I’ll tell you a little, then. I know their first name. Kurloz. Kurloz M-something. They’re experienced. I’ve seen their weapons. Daedric, and buzzing with magic. I don’t imagine you’d have much luck if they disagree with your dwarven ruin plans.” Kurloz. His name is Kurloz. She resists the urge to take her soul gem out, to bring out his letter so she can run her thumb over it for comfort.   
“I don’t imagine so either.” She mumbles, finishing her mug of mulled wine. It seemed a weak batch, but that was just fine.

“Why did they split off? What do you seek?” Damara hesitates.

“Several items of … magical importance to the Archmage.”   
“I see. Well. Why do you think you’ve already failed?” Kodo’shaa asks, moving away to fill another tin mug with mulled wine, setting it by Damara’s empty one. Damara sips at it, holding the warm mug close to herself.   
“I don’t know what I’m doing...” She says, feeling defeated. “I nearly was ended by an Oblivion-sent  _ wolf _ . I’ve lost my horse. I’ve no idea how to possibly convince him to help me, and I’ve no plan for if I can even clear the ruins.” She sighs over the rim of her drink, pensive as she slumps in her chair. “I haven’t even got armor.” She drinks deeply, and notices a weird, bitter aftertaste to the drink. Perhaps the cup? She doesn’t dwell on it, just enjoys the warmth it brings.   
“Certainly, you have been handed a monumental task...” Kodo'shaa sounds a little far away, and Damara realizes she may be a little tipsy, actually. That wine must have seriously creeped up on her. She swirls the cup a little, frowning down at it as the other woman continues. “But things are not always as hopeless as they seem.” She looks back up at Kodo’shaa, raising an eyebrow.

“How so? I’ve barely the coin to pay for all this. I can’t buy myself any equipment, let alone another horse.” She says.

“Let me help you.” Damara’s brow furrows, her suspicion immediately raised.

“Why.” She demands, flatly, studying her over the rim of her mug. “What do you get out of it?” Kodo'shaa smiles.

“Well … plenty of treasure in those ruins. Sounds as if a … return on investment is in the future.”

“And if I die, horribly?”

“Then I am no better or worse off than before. I have armor. Do I use it? No. I am an innkeeper. But I could use gold. And … perhaps any books you may find?”

“Books.” She says, dubious.

“And gold. Maybe … a mere quarter of whatever you find?”

“Why books?” She asks. The Khajiit’s tail twitches a little. She knows this is some sort of tell for Khajiit, but she’s not sure what. Kodo'shaa gestures to the tall stack of books on the counter.

“I’m quite the reader. I should be thrilled to have my hands on anything Dwarven.” Damara frowns, finding the terms of this Khajiit’s deal surprisingly agreeable.

“How can you help me?” She asks, starting on the second mug of wine. Kodo’shaa smiles, seeming to know Damara has been persuaded.

“I have armor. I have weapons. I even have a horse. And furthermore, I have traveled up and down these roads, and know many waypoints. Here, let me see your map.” Damara pulls her pack up, taking her folded map out of her bag, and hands it to her. She takes it gently, unfolding the map.

Very few waypoints are marked on her map. Kodo’shaa’s paw traces over where the ruins have been marked on her map, and then taps it.

“These are the ruins?” She asks. Damara nods. “Interesting.” She sets the map on the counter, stepping away to take a pot of ink from beneath the counter, as well as a quill. She begins to make small markings at certain locations, using map symbols to denote various places along the route, starting with her own inn. There are plenty of abandoned old farms, and she presses her lips together as Kodo’shaa marks an old farmhouse outside of Windhelm. The same place that set all these events into motion. She drinks, silently, and watches the Khajiit work.

Kodo’shaa is methodical, and apparently thorough. There are plenty of caves, ruins, and apparent bandit holes she carefully marks along her path, mumbling to herself occasionally. Eventually, she pulls back, looking satisfied.

“There. You see? I deliver on my promises.” She says. “Does this give you hope?”

“I must say it does.” She says, taking the map gently to study it.

“I should think you will encounter them at an abandoned farm. Perhaps a cave, if not on the road.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“They have expressed distaste in staying in inns to me before, when I bothered them a little too much about spending a night here.” Damara hums softly, studying the wine in her mug. She was starting to feel dizzy, actually, and she sets the cup down, pushing it away a little. 

“This is ridiculous.” She mumbles to herself. “It feels as if I’m chasing a ghost.”

“Seeking a member of the Brotherhood will always feel as such. Those bastards are tricky.”

“And how do  _ you _ know so much of the Brotherhood?”

“It is not my first day under the sky.” She says. “And I have not always been an innkeeper. Even now, it is simply … a pastime.” Damara sees the glint of her razor sharp fangs in her smile.

“Sounds intriguing.” She says, and Kodo’shaa shakes her head with a smile.

“It is a long story, and you have a long road ahead of you.” She says. “Let me show you to a room, I will make a few preparations for the morning, and you’ll leave first thing.”

“You seem excited.”

“Well, I have gold on the line. Would you not be as such?” Kodo’shaa waves away her concerns. “Come with me.”

She is shown to a room, and Damara shuts the door firmly behind her, and latches it. One can never be too careful … especially with how unsteady she felt.

She hears the wind battering against the walls and windows, but despite the frightful noise, they hold fast. Outside, snow that had been falling gently as she entered the inn is now falling thick and heavy, obscuring her view into the woods. She sighs softly, and sits on the hay mattress, bending to untie her boots. She sets them to the side, and puts her pack beside them.

It’s nerve wracking, what the immediate future might hold. But things are starting to look up, fucking finally. But now that she  _ knows  _ this is Kurloz she’s after… she’s uncertain how to feel. But she hopes when they finally do meet, it goes well.

She isn’t sure what to do if it doesn’t

She lays down, tugging the slightly too thin blankets over herself. Despite the loud wind and the chill sleeping in, she’s exhausted enough that she already feels sleep pulling her down. With a quick breath, she extinguishes the candle beside the bed, and settles in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're curious, this is the point that i officially have the rest of this story mapped out. cant tell ya how many chapters it could take to get there but it is written down on a piece of paper, which exists ... physically ... no further questions.  
> special thanks to gauchetimbalero on tumblr for help proofreading!

**Author's Note:**

> follow my tumblr @helldyke420 for more damloz content


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